A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  ‘Hello, Mrs. M. Is it important? I’ve just brought my wife home from hospital and I’m hanging up Christmas decorations.’

  ‘It’s not important at all.’ Mrs. Montgomery sounded mortified that she’d disturbed him at such a time. ‘I was just going to ask you to accompany me to the theater tomorrow evening to see Macbeth, but you certainly won’t want to with your wife at home. Forget I rang. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Bye, Jack.’

  ‘Bye, Mrs. M. Sorry I can’t come.’ Jack put his mobile away and carried on hanging up the decorations. All that money and no one to share it with. What a lonely life she led. Jack tried to concentrate on the positives in his own life until he heard his in-laws’ car stop outside the house and his mouth went suddenly dry. The garish garland he had just hung up looked completely out of place, but there was no time to remove it as the front door opened and they all trooped into the hall. Jack got down from the ladder and went to greet them. This was ridiculous; he was frightened to see his own son.

  They were gathered in a group waiting for him. He gave them all an over-bright smile. ‘Hello everyone!’

  Mary jumped and Jack realized his voice was too loud.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ Colin whispered as if speaking was too exhausting.

  ‘Where is she?’ Mary’s voice was just as exhausted as her husband’s.

  ‘She’s sleeping. Hello, Tom.’ He looked at his son, desperately wanting him to look up at him, but all he did was study the hall carpet as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. The silence was appalling.

  ‘I’ve been putting up Christmas decorations but they’re not very good…I need your help.’ Tom still didn’t answer. ‘It’s a bit late to be putting them up, I know, but…’ There was no point in continuing. He wanted to scream at his son. It’s not my fault that she’s ill! Stop blaming me! ‘Anyone want some tea?’ he asked.

  Colin and Mary nodded briefly as they took off their coats. Tom rushed upstairs to see his mother without looking in his father’s direction and Jack felt as if he’d punched him in the stomach. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. There was a small touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw Colin looking at him sympathetically.

  ‘He’ll come round, Jack. Just give him time.’

  Jack went into the kitchen without answering. He wondered if he ever would.

  After Colin and Mary had left, Jack and Tom sat beside Lucy in her bed. Lucy had typed that she’d like Tom to draw a picture and now he was concentrating all his artistic efforts on creating the best picture in the world for her. He looked so vulnerable, Jack thought. The nape of his neck was far too exposed by a draconian haircut. His grandparents had obviously taken him to Colin’s old-fashioned barbers. Jack had never seen his son’s hair so short. It made him look even younger than twelve; far too young to have this much pain.

  ‘I don’t know where he gets his artistic talent from, Luc.’

  ‘From Mum,’ Tom said quickly, carrying on drawing. He hadn’t looked at his father once since he’d come home. Jack could remember a time when he’d been jealous of the closeness between Lucy and Tom; now he felt ashamed of such a shallow response in the face of such love.

  ‘Yes, your mum’s good at everything,’ Jack said, smiling at Lucy. She started to type. Tom stopped drawing and watched her type.

  u betcha!

  ‘That’s slang, Mum!’ Tom sounded more like a parent than a twelve-year-old.

  In Lucy’s words, Jack caught a glimpse of the girl he had married; the forensic scientist with a great sense of humor; the girl who had started betting with him two weeks after they’d met about who could solve the crime they were working on first; she usually won. It had taken Jack only a couple of weeks to fall in love with her brilliance and her humor; amazingly, she had fallen in love with him too. He had never understood why, he was just thankful.

  Tom went back to his drawing and Lucy pointed at the clock.

  ‘It’s 10 o’clock, Tom,’ Jack said gently.

  ‘So?’ was his son’s curt response.

  ‘It’s your bed-time.’

  Tom glared at his father. ‘You never want me to be with Mum!’

  ‘That’s not true. It’s just late…don’t you agree, Luc?’

  Lucy blinked once. Her signal for yes.

  ‘It’s nearly the Christmas holidays! I can stay up as late as I want!’ his son shouted at him.

  ‘Stop shouting. You’ll upset your mother.’ Jack immediately wished he hadn’t spoken as Tom’s face creased with pain.

  ‘I didn’t mean to shout, Mum. Sorry.’

  They held their breath as Lucy typed.

  ok luv u now bed!

  ‘I’ll finish the drawing tomorrow, Mum. Love you too.’ Tom leaned over to kiss Lucy. ‘Press your alarm if you need me in the night. Whatever time it is. Don’t forget.’

  She blinked at him once and he smiled at her. ‘Night, night. Don’t let the bed-bugs bite.’ Her mantra to him when he was small.

  ‘I’ll come in and say goodnight later,’ Jack said.

  Tom picked up his drawing before saying: ‘Don’t bother.’

  Jack sat there, stunned.

  Lucy typed luvs u no one else 2 kick u can take it

  ‘I’ll try, Luc, but it’s bloody hard.’

  he needs u - now give me clues

  Ten minutes later they were in Jack’s study looking at his notes.

  ‘That’s as far as I’ve got. Paolo Cellini dies on the floor of his palatial apartment and everyone thinks he’s had a heart attack, but I know he was killed by someone switching his heart tablets to these.’ Jack brought out the two tablets that had rolled out from behind Cellini’s bathroom radiator. ‘Taste that, Luc.’

  Jack put one of the tablets on Lucy’s tongue so she could taste it. She typed vitamin c

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve been trying to work out who’d want him dead. I went to Cellini’s funeral while you were in hospital. Mrs. M asked me go to, as she couldn’t. It’s very strange, Luc. An immensely wealthy young man makes a will stating exactly where he wants to be buried. In a run-down area of the East End. His girlfriend told me he was brought up there but I’d have thought a playboy would want to disguise his poor early life even after his death. His girlfriend was distraught at his funeral. She told me that they were going to be married.’

  Lucy typed u sure?

  ‘Course not. But she certainly thought so. Then I saw a blonde woman who seemed alarmed when a man smiled at her. He looked like a bouncer. I’ve discovered he’s the manager at the Blue Notes nightclub where the girlfriend sings. He’s in love with the singer.’

  Lucy typed whos the blonde

  ‘I don’t know. Bianca, the girlfriend, said the photo reminded her of a school-friend but time changes people, doesn’t it? She could look completely different now. ’

  Lucy typed might not

  ‘So which clue would you follow?

  Lucy typed blonde & manager

  Of course, Jack knew this already, but Lucy needed to be involved. He sighed; he also knew he should show her the silk panties but he didn’t want to; they would shine a floodlight onto something that was part of their history: sex. He opened his desk drawer and held them in front of her. ‘I found them hidden in Cellini’s bathroom. Look at the label. Ever heard of it?’

  Lucy’s eyes creased with pain before she looked at the label La Soie inside the panties. She typed the words: no wish i had

  ‘Can you check the Internet for me tomorrow when I’m working? Find out all you can about Cellini’s life. Perhaps there’s a photo of the blonde woman on the net.’ Jack showed Lucy the picture on his mobile. She made a strange sound when she saw her and typed virginal

  Jack stared at her, thinking about what Bianca had told him about her school-friend. She was like a beautiful lily; half concealed but promising paradise, but… If she was the same woman, it was the but that Jack was interested in.

  CHAPTER 21

  23rd Jul
y 2011

  Mark looked in the lounge mirror as he put his bow-tie on, contemplating the long evening ahead. He didn’t want to attend another charity dinner, but Angelica wanted him to go and she needed support. She’d been supporting children’s charities for years and he knew how important they were to her. But he was tired; tired of concentrating on a hit-and-run driver no one seemed to be interested in finding; tired of looking at Angelica praying to a Black Madonna for a child; tired of only seeing his daughter occasionally. She used to stay with them every weekend, then every other weekend, and now not at all. Angelica always said she wanted her to stay and Mark knew she meant it, but his daughter Emily sensed that it made Angelica unhappy, so she told him it would be better if he took her out. The three of them used to have fun together when they were first married because Angelica thought they would soon have a child of their own, but for some reason it hadn’t happened and Emily felt more and more uncomfortable staying with them. She had always been a sensitive child and she didn’t want to make Angelica unhappy. So now, Mark picked her up from his ex-wife’s house some weekends and took her out, but it was always difficult, constantly trying to think of places to take her. At first, Angelica came too, but for the last six months, she was always too busy with her charity work.

  ‘Are you ready, Marky?’

  Angelica walked into the lounge looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her; she was wearing a shimmering blue gown which made her blue eyes even more brilliant. Mark wondered for the thousandth time why she had married him when she could have had any man she wanted. He remembered the first time he had seen her at an art exhibition he and his wife had been invited to. He had never believed in love at first sight before he saw her; but he was lost from the moment she turned around and smiled at him. He and his wife had divorced six months later. He’d felt massively guilty about the effect on Emily, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about the feelings he had for this beautiful woman; he still felt the same after six years, in spite of her obsession with religion.

  ‘Do you like the dress?’ Angelica performed a flirtatious pirouette.

  Of course he liked it; she was wearing it; she could wear the cheapest dress in the world and still look stunning. ‘What do you think?’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘I don’t know. I want you to tell me.’ She looked at him with that strange vulnerability she sometimes displayed as if she doubted her attractiveness.

  ‘You look as beautiful as a swan.’

  She frowned at him. ‘That’s a strange thing to say.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I love swans – they’re majestic, slender-necked, heavy-bodied and have big feet. Just like you.’

  She suddenly laughed and came to kiss him. ‘I love you, Mr. Logan.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why, but the feeling is mutual, my love.’

  An hour later, Mark was bored senseless by a succession of long meandering speeches telling everyone how wonderful they were for donating so much money to so many worthy causes. He knew he was drinking too much, but there wasn’t much else to do. Unfortunately, Angelica was sitting opposite him, having an earnest conversation with an elderly lady. Mark liked Mrs. Montgomery, but Angelica had monopolized her for most of the evening and she was the only interesting person sitting at their table. the other people were so self-righteous about the importance of giving to those less fortunate than themselves that he wanted to strangle them. He smiled, thinking that might perhaps spoil the rest of the evening for them. There was an empty seat next to Angelica. The last guest who had been allocated to their table hadn’t turned up. Mrs. Montgomery had told them that she thought that a great pity as he was a very interesting, intelligent young man who seemed to know a lot about everything. Mark was hoping he wouldn’t show up; he couldn’t stand another self-righteous prick at the table.

  There was a sudden wave of interest at the other end of the room. Someone had just arrived and everyone seemed to know him. Angelica turned to see who it was and frowned.

  ‘Oh no, he’s not coming over here, is he?’

  Mrs. Montgomery looked at her with surprise. ‘Do you know Paolo?’

  ‘I saw him at Sotheby’s. I don’t like him.’

  ‘Really? I don’t know why you don’t like him he’s—’

  Before she could finish her sentence, Paolo was standing beside their table, smiling at everyone. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, but I had a business meeting that went on and on. Incredibly boring. Please forgive me. ’

  Mrs. Montgomery beamed at him. ‘Of course, we do, Paolo. Do sit down.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs. M. You must introduce me to everyone.’

  ‘This is my neighbor, Paolo Cellini. He’s a very astute art dealer.’

  As she introduced him to everyone, Mark studied Angelica’s tight expression. She was the only one who wasn’t smiling back at him. What had he done to upset her? He took an immediate dislike to the man as he talked to everyone, making them all seem important; he was far too charming; far too aware of the effect he had on people.

  At first, Angelica ignored Paolo as he spoke authoritatively about Old Masters; the loss of the Correggio was too raw. But once he started talking about how the portrayal of the Madonna had changed over the centuries, she couldn’t help but become interested.

  ‘I’m sure that Mrs. Logan will know this as she bid for a Correggio at an art sale at Sotheby’s recently.’

  Angelica shot him a look. Was he taunting her? She was surprised to see him looking at her with respect before he turned his attention back to everyone at the table.

  ‘Correggio was the foremost painter of the Parma school of the Italian Renaissance; he was responsible for some of the most tender, most natural images of the Madonna in the sixteenth century. The problem was, by the seventeenth century, she was all too frequently portrayed without any warmth; she looked cold and remote in paintings so people found it much more difficult to relate to her; it was hard to imagine her loving a child, then along comes Giovanni Battista Salvi who portrayed her as a tender, pure, loving Madonna and the Catholic Church loved him for it.’

  ‘He was also known as Sassoferrato from the town he came from,’ Angelica said.

  Paolo turned to her and smiled. ‘You know his paintings?’

  ‘Of course, I do. Surely every Catholic does.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him, but then I’m not a Catholic,’ Mrs. Montgomery said. ‘Have you bought any of his paintings, Paolo?’

  ‘A few, Mrs. M. You must come to see them one day.’ He paused then looked at Angelica with such intensity that she found it difficult to breathe. ‘Perhaps you will come too.’

  ‘I’m sure Angelica is far too busy to visit your apartment, Paolo. Aren’t you, my dear?’ Mrs. Montgomery’s eyes spoke a warning.

  Angelica looked at her in surprise but understood the message. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am, Mr. Cellini.’

  Mark watched them from the other side of the table; annoyed that Paolo Cellini had managed to dominate the conversation so completely that the self-righteous had forgotten all about self-righteousness and seemed to be enjoying listening to Cellini, instead of pontificating. Mark knew he was being petulant, but he hated the way people were hanging on his every word. There were more important things in the world than art, Mark wanted to shout at him, across the table, but no one was paying him any attention at all, especially Angelica. She had been engrossed in a conversation with the charmer for far too long. It was too noisy to hear what they were saying clearly. He poured himself another glass of wine. He’d forgotten how many he’d had. He looked across at Angelica; that bastard Cellini was staring at her with far too much interest.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he shouted over to her, glaring at Cellini.

  Angelica smiled at him. ‘Old Masters.’

  ‘What? At school?’ Mark laughed.

  Paolo stared at him coldly.

  ‘Paolo was just saying that throughout history art has been perceived differently by so many peop
le,’ Angelica said, wanting Mark to join in their conversation.

  ‘I have no idea what art is. Perhaps Mr. Cellini will enlighten me.’ Mark leaned forward over the table, enjoying the annoyance that flashed across Cellini’s face for a second.

  ‘For me, art means what an artist means to portray; then what he actually did portray and how we respond to what he created.’ Paolo spoke with authority.

  People at the table, who knew nothing about art, nodded in total agreement.

  ‘So what do you think Damien Hirst was trying to portray when he put a cow in formaldehyde?’

  Angelica looked at Mark; startled by his belligerent tone. Paolo smiled at him as if the question was friendly.

  ‘I imagine he thought he was trying to be original; no one had done it before.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that. It’s fucking hideous!’

  ‘Mark!’ Angelica widened her eyes; she hated it when he became drunk.

  ‘It’s not something I admire,’ Paolo said calmly, ‘because I love classical painters and sculptors, but there are many forms of art. Some are difficult to interpret.’

  ‘Isn’t that because Charles Saatchi says so and you’re just following the leader?’

  Paolo stared at him impassively and didn’t answer.

  ‘Isn’t that because Saatchi creates moulds to make him money?’ Mark persisted. ‘Then people like you come along and make more. Capitalism in a nutshell.’

  ‘I think we ought to go home, Mark.’ Angelica was worried about the sudden conflict at the table. She couldn’t believe that Mark was jealous of a conversation she’d had with a stranger.

  ‘No, please don’t.’ Paolo spoke quickly. ‘Let’s just change the conversation. After all, this is supposed to be an evening to celebrate children’s charities.’

  Everyone tapped the table in agreement, but Angelica started to get up. ‘It’s late and my husband has a busy day tomorrow. Please excuse us.’